


As Good Belongs To You

by MercuryGray



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Bedside Vigils, F/M, Late Night Conversations, Letters, Mutually Unrequited, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 07:45:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9646853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray
Summary: Mary Phinney is abed with typhoid, and Emma, hoping to spare her more-skilled colleagues, has volunteered to keep the night vigil with her. The hospital's a different place at night - and sometimes the quiet hours of midnight (and the guests they bring) reveal more than they hide.





	

**Author's Note:**

> At the beginning of 2.03, Belinda, seeing Emma come in that morning for breakfast, asks her bedraggled mistress skeptically, "You...spent the night there?" Try as I might, I couldn't wrestle that into something as scandalous as I wanted -- so I have this instead.

Emma focused her tired eyes on the plate in front of her and tried to summon something that vaguely resembled prayer over dinner. Dinner, of course, was a relative term - tonight’s offering (the same food as had been served on the wards this afternoon) was some species of stew, the vegetables all but boiled clean of color, texture, identity and, one rather thought, of flavor as well. (Abel was many things, but a chef was not one of them. Emma was glad Belinda had been accepted into the kitchen staff, if this what was passing for fortifying and nutritious fare for invalids.)

_ LordforwhatweareabouttoreceivemayyoumakeustrulygratefulAmen. _

She spooned the first bite into her mouth, chewing hesitantly and felt it slide, tasteless, down her throat. This was not a meal she was going to linger over. The bread, at least, would be palatable - she knew Belinda had had a hand in it - and there was a cup of water, too. Scant fare for someone who had been working all day. And this is how Nurse Mary had been eating this past months! Small wonder she hadn’t gotten sick already.

She’d sent Doctor Foster away to get some rest, and was just starting to nod in her chair when the Chaplain had knocked at the door, trying to be quiet. “I thought you might like a moment of respite,” he had offered, leaning almost hesitantly into the room as he might somehow disturb the air and thereby wake the patient. “The kitchen...maid Belinda thought you might not have eaten, and bade me bring a plate upstairs. It’s in the day room, should you want it. Cold, I’m afraid. She said she’d been waiting to see you.”

Emma had smiled, rising from her chair. “She’s probably right. She always knows these things.”

“There’s...no rush,” the chaplain had offered kindly. “I’ve no place to be myself.” She had hesitated a moment, glancing at Mary, but the head nurse offered no guidance, still sleeping soundly. Well, but it was not as though the Chaplain had not seen his share of fevers. And there would be no great change if she was gone ten minutes. 

Belinda had been right - Emma hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast, too busy to turn in at the noontide hour for anything more than a cold cup of tea and too occupied with Mary in the evening to attend to dinner. Which was why she was in the day room, cautiously spooning cold stew into an unenthusiastic mouth. 

She ate her meal thinking, quietly, about Mary and Doctor Foster, how close they had been when she had come into the room to start her watch. She’d had enough friends in love or out of it to think she knew what it looked like, but this was different, somehow, softer and calmer than what her friends called love -- almost more like what she saw between her parents, a kind of warm, wordless comfort that dwelt in the spaces between them.

She knew Mary had been married - and Foster, too, had a wife, though where she was now Emma did not rightly know. Divorce was not a word she knew well, considered an abomination of manners in her own home -- but if two people married, and found themselves unsuited, was it not better to break the thing apart? Would it not be better to build such things over anew?

She no longer felt that comfort from Frank. She knew that now, the doubt that had quietly begun moving into her heart several months ago now firmly in residence. She’d tried to give him a second chance, bandaging his wounds, even going so far as to permit certain intimacies she would never have allowed before in the hope that they would somehow clear her mind - yet still at day’s end, she had crept away from his room feeling more isolated than ever. “Don’t lie to me,” she’d begged, and he’d ducked his eyes and said “Not again,” and her blood had run cold. 

Foster wouldn’t have done such a thing to Mary, she was sure of that. Or if he had done, she would not have permitted it to pass un-noted. McBurney, too, for all that he was a cold fish, certainly did not seem a man who held with lying, either, and seemed, also, the type too concerned with manly honor to cheapen himself in a lie. And of course the Chaplain would never have countenanced such a thing as lying to a woman he professed to love. 

She had found herself wondering of late what such a creature would look like -- the object of Hopkins’ affections. She imagined someone rather more like Mary than herself, devout and quiet, studious and with a wise air about her person, the sort of soul one turns to for comfort in an hour of need. Of course she would need such gifts, if she was to be a pastor’s wife, a model of good behavior and the sort of woman who might lead Sunday school or direct the choir or organize the parish picnic or deliver food to the sick, as need warranted, a jewel-box of talents.  _ A capable woman who can find? Her value is beyond rubies,  _ the Proverbs said, and she was sure that was the only reason she had never heard Hopkins speak, of an afternoon, of a sweetheart at home. A woman like that was beyond rubies -- and would need to be, to deserve someone like Hopkins. Well-educated, polite, kind, agreeable in temper but resolute in purpose, and...well, but she would say it,  _ handsome,  _ too. Was that such a bad thing to be? A different kind of beauty than Frank had charmed with, but there  _ was  _ something about him that made her --

_ od is going to smite me, saying such things about one of his servants,  _ she thought silently, pushing the thought to one side and hoping it remained there.

Eventually the plate was clean, wiped down with bits of bread - a trick she’d learned from watching soldiers too used to half rations bolt their dinners down and practically lick the plate clean of gravy afterwards. How her mother would disapprove! But her mother wasn’t here, and in her absence, Emma could do as she liked. The kitchen was short of water, anyway - eating thusly saved scrubbing. She brought the dish down to the kitchen and gave it as good a rinse as she could with the cold, scummy water in the basin in the sink, and, guiltily, left it for the morning crew to finish.

Hopkins was still in her chair when she returned, his attention deep in his bible, glasses perched on his nose, silhouetted in the light from the lamp on the bedside table behind him. He looked up as the door creaked. “I told you there was no cause to hurry,” he reprimanded softly, the smallest bit of judgement in his voice.

“It wasn’t something I wanted to savor,” Emma said with a shrug. Even Hopkins had to smile at that - though of course, he never complained. “Thank you for bringing the plate upstairs.”

“My pleasure.” He rose and tucked his marker back into the bible and his glasses into the pocket of his waistcoat, offering her the return of her chair. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

She shook her head. “You ought to get some sleep yourself,” she said. “Can’t have you falling asleep on the ward tomorrow.”

“I could say the same for you,” he replied gently. She shrugged. 

“We’ve only got one chaplain.” God above, had she really said that? How infantile she sounded - no better than a flirt at her first party. 

Hopkins, for his own part, seemed not to have noticed, or else was merely being polite. “Well, I’ll bid you good night. I’ll keep Miss Phinney in my prayers.” He gave a brief nod of goodbye and nudged the door shut behind him as he left, bible in hand.

Emma looked at the closed door and sighed, wishing she’d had the sense to keep her mouth shut.  She should have brought something to read herself - or perhaps she might borrow that book of poetry she knew Mary kept in her bedside table. 

She turned to look for the slim volume, but found nothing -- except something that hadn’t been there that afternoon. A letter, carefully folded. Had Hopkins forgotten it? Had Foster?

She knew she shouldn’t read it, but...if it was only to return it…

The writing was decidedly female, the page cramped with script, mindful of not wasting a precious sheet of paper.

_ Dearest Brother, _

_ First, if I may - a request. Mama begs you to write to her more often, and complains to me that I seem to get more of your love and devotion than she and Papa do. I try to say that you write so that the children know you are well, but she will not be moved by such exhortations. Write her, please. Your sister is growing weary of making your excuses. While we are on the subject of Mama and excuses, it seems we cannot attend a church sociable, sewing bee or market day without her constant observations on the ladies present and whether they would do for a preachers’ wife. I am ashamed to report she has in some instances begun making inquiries on your behalf. I give this news only so that you will be well-armed against it when you return home next, if you should be so lucky. She wants you married, Henry, preferably to some sweet-faced miss whom she can boss around relentlessly and who will give her more grandbabies than I have. Try to get home before she makes up your mind for you. _ Emma smiled at the letter, wondering if she could get away with asking Hopkins about his mother the next time they spoke. But there was a second page, of different paper -- he’d begun writing the letter back.

Should she? Did she dare? She turned her eyes heavenward and begged forgiveness, and then read.

_ Dearest Becca, _

_ Mama should know I wished to wait until I had a parish of my own, and a house, before I found a woman to be mistress of it. Until then, you should remind her, I am perfectly capable of darning my own shirts and whatever other domestic trivialities she feels I am in want of. (I will have her know I just yesterday mended a hole in my coat, without help from any of the ladies of the hospital.)  _

_ But I thank you for the warning. I would tell you to remind her I might yet find a wife here instead of home, but I would not wish to get scolded as a tease.  _ A new paragraph, as though he had paused while writing. _ It would not be teasing, though. Gasp, sister, if you must - there is a -  _ (There was a crossout here, the word ‘ _ girl _ ’ scored through and  ‘ _ woman _ ’ written after) _ woman here whose affection I wish to win. I wish also you were here to advise on it; you always said I would be hopeless when it came to courting, and she is not the sort that bats her eyes at bible verses. (I remember you said Cora Darrow did that, when she would come on Sunday to hear me read, and I have not forgotten it.) But I think of bringing her home to meet you, and I think you would approve. At the very least, I think she would not stand by and let Mama order her about. She is one of the hardest workers in our hospital, though her family is a good one and she is unused to such a life. Papa would despise her politics - she is as Southern as they come - ” _

Emma stared, her vision suddenly out of focus, the hand holding the letter somehow, magically, mysteriously not her own. She’d thought perhaps that it was Mary he’d been writing of, but Mary wasn’t Southern, had no politics Hopkins’ Abolitionist parents in Pennsylvania would disapprove of.

No, the Chaplain was writing of ... _ her. _

The room swam, and she braced herself against the chair, taking several deep, calming breaths before everything came back into view. Instinctively she checked Mary’s brow - still cool. Her own pulse was rapid, her skin electric with nerves. Writing home of her!

_ He’ll want his letters back,  _ a voice inside reminded waspishly.  _ Are you trying to look for trouble?  _ Another chorused. 

Emma glanced again at Mary, wishing, again, that her friend were awake so she might beg some counsel. But Mary’s sleep was sound, and she would not wake her for some inconsequential  _ crise de coeur  _ like this.

The chaplain’s room was in the uppermost floor, near where the maids had stayed in the hotel’s heyday, and the stairs seemed endless. His letters burned between her fingers, every creak in the floorboards a cause for concern. The door was not quite closed, and, as she glanced at the crack in the door, she caught sight of the man himself, stripped to the waist and at his washstand, scrubbing at his face. Emma felt her breath catch in her throat.   _Lord give me strength._ The prayer sprang up unbidden. Her aunts and cousins had often made jokes of an afternoon about the merits of a fine pair of shoulders, but she had never really had cause to think about such an attribute until just now. (She supposed she had given it some mind when Frank...but Frank was not nearly as tall as the Chaplain.)

She knocked, timidly, and he turned, pulling on a shirt as he crossed the room, doubtless used to enough desperate nighttime summonses that he had the foresight to dress before opening the door. Still, untucked and open at the throat...She steeled herself and tried to act naturally.

“Miss Green!” He almost closed the door a little more, seeing her in the hallway and mindful he was not properly dressed.

She held out the letters. “You left your letters on the table. I thought I should return them before they were missed.”

“Thank you.” He opened the door wider, embarrassed at being caught in such a state of undress as she now saw him in. Oh, shame on her, that she wished his hand would touch hers as he took them! “Thank y-”

“I read them,” she blurted out, before he could thank her for it, her cheeks bright crimson. “I didn’t know if you...or - or Doctor Foster had...I’m sorry.”

“Both of them?” It was Hopkins’ turn to look a little beetroot in the cheeks himself.

She nodded, lost for words, aware her face was so hot you could probably light a candle from it.  “Your sister seems an interesting woman,” she managed, with a small shrug and the most nervous of smiles. “I...wouldn’t mind meeting her someday. And...your mother. It’s only fair, since you’ve...already met mine.”

Oh, how to fix this? What to say? For she must say something, or else risk offending him, or, still worse, give him the impression that his admiration was unwelcome.  _ Chaplain, our desires are mutual?  _ He, too, was fumbling, the both of them caught between convention and candor.

“Miss Green, I should apolo-”

“Henry, please.”

The name dropped from her tongue as natural as breathing, and it struck him like a stone, stunned into stillness. So many thoughts distilled into two words, plea and petition both.  _ Please let me speak. Please don’t be angry. Please don’t leave when I’ve only just gotten you. Please give me a chance.  _ And, unholier than these -  _ Please wrap me in those arms and tell me you won’t lie to me -- and mean it.  _ She wondered for a moment why she hadn’t thought of that before.  _ His name. I should have said his name.  _  His stillness let her take a breath. “Perhaps we might take a walk, one afternoon? There’s a footpath along the park, near the river.”  _ Frank used to take me walking there,  _ she almost wanted to say, but didn’t - the less said now of Frank the better. 

There, that ought to suffice. Invitation, not refusal. And the simple pleasure of hearing his  _ name,  _ where once had only been  _ Chaplain, _ or  _ Reverend Hopkins,  _ or in a moment of crisis the somehow-more-immediate  _ Hopkins,  _ the burnish of his titles cast away. 

“I would like that very much, Miss G-” he stopped, unsure of whether or not he might step out onto the ice and still return unscathed. She waited, expectantly waiting. “Emma.”

When had her name kindled such fires in her? She had long despaired it as a child, wishing her mother had more exotic tastes as her schoolrooms filled with Adelines and Cornelias and Sophronias. She could not help now but smile at the sound. 

She found herself nodding, determined and decided. “Very well. Good night.”

She turned and began her descent of the stairs, almost to giddy to hear from behind her, as he closed the door, “Good night, Emma.”

Mary was still asleep when she returned, the bedside table finally yielding out the promised book of poetry. Emma could hardly keep her hands still, the words on the page dancing before her eyes, her mind half here, half gone already on a Sunday walk.

_I CELEBRATE myself;_ _  
_ _And what I assume you shall assume;_ _  
___For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.

**Author's Note:**

> Credit due to the wonderful emmadelosnardos, whose own use of Whitman's poetry far outstrips my own. It is the opening lines of Leaves of Grass, published in 1855, that Emma tries unsuccessfully to read at the end of the piece. 
> 
> I hoped to capture a little bit of the reverent irreverence in Jed's voice when he uses Mary's name by accident -- here, however, it is Emma who speaks first, as I doubt our good Henry would permit himself such a liberty.
> 
> Henry's well-meaning sister Becca wrote him a letter once previously, which you can read on my tumblr in my Emmry tag. She has four children, Jemma, Daniel, Harry, and Ishabel. His overbearing mother makes her first appearance in this piece.


End file.
